


you're a tragedy starting to happen

by viscrael



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Short, emetaphobia tw, vaguely gorey language but no actual gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5241971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscrael/pseuds/viscrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He opens his mouth to say something—“thank you,” maybe; “sorry,” probably—but finds the words get stuck in his throat. He swallows them, licks his lips, and starts to try again, when he’s interrupted.</p>
<p>“Panic attacks,” says Urie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're a tragedy starting to happen

**Author's Note:**

> liSten......im mutsurie trash
> 
> tw for vaguely graphic depictions of vomiting (hence the emetaphobia warning) and panic attacks. this is super short and probably ooc af but i just Dont Care at this poINT i need mroe mutsurie in my life i l o ve the m
> 
> also this is unedited af
> 
>  
> 
> title from red by elbow

When Mutsuki’s knees give out, they hit the tile floor of the bathroom with a harsh _thud_. Pain shoots up his leg from the point of impact, but he can’t do much but wince and hold himself up with the palms of his hands, elbows bent. Eventually, even supporting his own weight becomes too much to bear, and in perfect, poetic irony, his elbows give out too, and his forehead kisses the floor.

This is stupid; this is horribly, _horribly_ stupid, and he should not be like this, he should not be this _weak—_ but he is, and it’s all he can do to lay there until shocks stop wracking his body. His skin is on fire, his hands are shaking, he can’t _breathe, dammit_ —

Urie finds him like that moments later, sprawled pathetically on the bathroom floor, shoulders still shaking, spine cracking under the pressure being released. Mutsuki, under normal circumstances, would at least try to keep the other from finding him in such a compromising ( _vulnerable_ ) position, but as it is, he’s doing well to breathe, doing well not to puke until his lungs tear out, beat at his chest until his ribs break. His skin is still on fire, and it only spreads at the other’s presence, from his arms to his shoulders, until it reaches his collarbones and curls into his throat and he turns away to the toilet to retch.

The other man does not say anything—but as far as Mutsuki knows, he very well could have, words drowned out from the sound of his heaving—but Mutsuki feels hands on the nape of his neck. His hair is being pulled back from his face, kept out of the way as he feels the back of his throat climb for the third time.

It feels like a long while before Mutsuki’s shakes stop finally, until he’s coming up with nothing but bile and spit, but eventually, the tingling in his throat stops and he slumps against the basin. The ceramic is cool against his forehead—he’s sweating, he knows, and Urie flushes the toilet before silently handing him a rag, damp with cold water.

Mutsuki takes it and manages to pull himself off the floor enough to sit up, pressing the cloth to his face, and it helps a little. The fire in his arms has calmed down now, but he feels remnants starting up at the realization that _Urie is here, Urie saw me like this, no one was supposed to see me like this_ —and he feels it spike again, just for a moment. The other doesn’t say anything about his heart rate increasing once again, but he kneels on the floor, takes the rag from Mutsuki’s hands (still trembling with aftershock of fight or flight), and presses it to the back of Mutsuki’s neck.

He doesn’t say anything, even as the rag moves until it’s wiping sweat from his cheeks, gentle—and Mutsuki would call it a caress if he didn’t know Urie so well—and once the sweat is gone and Mutsuki is breathing, he stands up, sets the rag on the sink’s counter, and offers a hand.

Mutsuki looks at it for a moment, considers if his legs will be able to hold him up right now, and hesitantly takes it. The grip is strong; he isn’t wearing gloves right now. Their hands linger in the air for a moment, and Mutsuki swallows the leftover taste of vomit.

He opens his mouth to say something—“thank you,” maybe; “sorry,” probably—but finds the words get stuck in his throat. He swallows them, licks his lips, and starts to try again, when he’s interrupted.

“Panic attacks,” says Urie. He shoves his hand in his pocket as if to deny the elongated contact they’d just shared.

Mutsuki blinks. “Oh.” He looks down, apologetic. “…Yeah.”

Urie only nods in response, and they seem to come to an understanding. Mutsuki’s hands are still trembling slightly, still recovering from the weight of his attack, but they feel warm where he touched the other. He presses a thumb into his right hand’s palm, curls the fingers, and almost doesn’t notice when Urie tries to sneak out and away.

“Thank you,” he says to the retreating back, and the only confirmation he gets that his words had been received is a hesitance directly before the door shuts behind Urie. A soft _click_ signals Mutsuki’s solitude in the room.

He leans back against the door and takes a deep breath.


End file.
